year zero
by saunatonttu
Summary: Is anybody alive here across the line? —Drabble series, AU. Rated T for now.
1. another hero

**A/N: Uh, so this is a new project I recently got inspiration for, and it is likely to be a long-ish thing. It's clearly an AU, and will include a lot of characters. **

**And this is supposed to be a drabble series, so I'm trying to keep the chapters relatively short and enjoyable. I may not update very often due to university work, but I will try my best because I have so much planned for this little thing.**

* * *

**.year zero. **

**.**

**.**

_another hero_

**.**

**.**

"It's time, Tenth."

Sawada Tsunayoshi looks up from the newspaper his hands are clutching at, and sees his old friend, his right-hand man, there, dressed in an Armani suit that is sure to get ruined soon.

Silver hair and emerald eyes, both so bright and yet so dark with underlying tension.

It is time, Tsuna acknowledges with a tight nod of his head as his eyes trail over to the page he had been studying before, and a familiar pair of piercing violet eyes meet his.

"Hayato," he says softly as he places the newspaper away, folding it neatly, as he's unable to look at the face of their (the country's) enemy. "How is everyone?"

He thinks about Lambo, the fifteen-year-old teen who now has to light up a grenade for real.

He thinks about Kyoko, who has never even _seen_ yet alone wielded a weapon, and it makes him sick to his stomach.

He thinks about his grandfather, who is long dead, but who would do the same thing as he is about to do, with no less remorse and pain.

It isn't – wasn't – a decision. It's a necessity that has driven them into this terrible situation, and Tsuna acknowledges this.

Hayato's face softens at the sight of his boss', friend's, expression, but Tsuna can still see the carefully hidden bags under those eyes, which come from the painstaking, endlessefforts to just stay alive.

And then there's that anger that runs deep in Hayato's blood. In everyone's blood. Too much had already been lost, and now...

"As ready as anyone can be," Hayato murmurs, voice hard and edgy.

Tsuna's lips curl into a grim line, fingers entwining with one another underneath his chin. "This is it, then," he says quietly, messy brown bangs casting a shadow over his face. "This is it."

It's the eve of a war, and Sawada Tsunayoshi tries to feel more like a confident hero and less like the whimpering boy he had once been.

**.**

**.**

**.**

_be a hero_

_kill your ego_


	2. feed the course, come join in the war

**.year zero.**

**.**

**.**

_feed the source, come join in the war_

**.**

**.**

It's six am, and Yamamoto Takeshi is already standing on top of one of the highest buildings of the city, sans the Castle. A cool wind ruffles at Yamamoto's hair, but this time he finds no comfort in it.

Man, why is he the one handling this? Gokudera has much better knack for this with his theory and calculations.

But, Yamamoto doesn't fight what he knows to be inevitable, and so he sets the rifle and prepares himself in silence, the early morning sounds echoing up from the streets.

Tsuna asked him to, so he's going to do this.

Yamamoto smiles ruefully as he aims, keeping his eye near the telescopic sight, and then he waits in silence for his designated target.

This isn't his type of method – or his type of thing in the first place – but there are always sacrifices to be made for the wish he and his friends have.

And for that, he must disregard his humanity and conscience, if only for the time being.

Yamamoto's finger rests on the trigger of the rifle, and there's a sickening tightening in his stomach as he waits. And then he waits more.

Fifteen minutes have passed, and his palms are sweaty, but it's alright because he's a natural, right?

Reborn himself said so.

Yamamoto's lips twitch up at the faint memory – but then it is already gone as a black limo pulls up in front of the Castle, of the headquarters of their (Tsuna's, his, this bleeding country's) enemy.

A figure steps out.

Yamamoto inhales.

And then a gunshot echoes in the silence of the morning, breaking all semblance of makeshift peace this city (this country) has had endured this far.

Reborn always did call him a natural, Yammoto notes when he sees, through the telescopic sight, a blooming patch of red on his target's lower back as the politician falls, stumbling and staggering, to the street.

Around the city, about six other politicians bite the bullet approximately at this time, Yamamoto knows as he leaves the rifle behind. Fingerprints don't matter; Tsuna had told him to get back as soon as possible.

Yamamoto doesn't smile as he runs down the stairs; he thinks about his dad and mom.

The dead would never come back, but they can still save what's left.

Or die trying.

**.**

**.**

_they say the city is safe_


	3. there will be b l o o d

**.year zero.**

**.**

**.**

_there will be blood_

_there will be blood_

_there will be __** d**_

**.**

**.**

"It's Tsunayoshi-kun and his merry band of misfits, isn't it?"

Purple eyes gaze through the large double-windows of the throne room while lithe fingers idly play with a marshmallow, squeezing and twisting the sugary treat.

"Yes. There was a witness that claimed to have seen Gokudera Hayato at one of the crime scenes."

"Ah, Gokudera-chan..." The name is followed by chiming laughter that resembles jingling bells and autumn nights. Warm, yet so cold, withering.

"How many casualties, Kikyo-chan?" he asks, violet eyes trailing towards the striking teal hair, the only bright colour in this whiteness.

"None died, but there are several injured and two are MIA," Kikyo murmurs, head bowed and arms pressed atop his knee. "There was an explosion near the center – we believe that Ginger Bread may have died, but that remains unconfirmed."

"Ginger-kun, huh?" Purple eyes turn back to the window. "That's too bad. He was a good strategist, that child." Empty words from an empty man – though how likely is it that the ginger is actually dead?

He lives on like a leech, grabbing onto a lifeline and holding onto it until it no longer serves a purpose.

_That_ is what makes Ginger a valuable asset, too.

"But that Tsunayoshi-kun," the purple-eyed menace whispers, "how naive. He'll never win the game of chess this way." Winning without devouring a piece is, after all, so very impossible – in chess, in life, and in war.

"Call Glo-kun's squad, will you, Kikyo-chan?"

An act gives the right to retaliate; retaliation breeds more vengeance; the cycle goes on and on.

Lips twist into a sneer, and purple eyes narrow into thin slits. Fingers curl, bones crack, barely audible.

Sanity is such a fragile thing, but who is sane on the battlefield?

**.**

**.**

_it's the world_

_on its knees_


	4. i want to feel the sunlight on my face

**.year zero.**

**.**

**.**

_i want to feel the sunlight on my face_

**.**

**.**

"They can oppress us, they can humiliate us, but there is one thing that I can't accept."

Tsuna feels sweat trickling down the nape of his neck, hot and sticky as the humid air in the sun-burnt city.

"They have killed, countless times. Our friends, our _family." _

The words leave his mouth, and each of them makes the knot in his stomach tighter. It's an invisible pressure – it suffocates him from the inside – like a barbed wire around his stomach and liver.

"And what we all just wanted was peace – we wanted those executions to be stopped."

He remembered all those executions – of the Revolutionary Forces. Timoteo had been first; he had been beheaded publicly by the King himself.

Tsuna inhales, sharp and wheezing, at the memory, and his speech comes to a startling pause.

Timoteo, after Sawada Ieyasu's demise, had been like a grandfather to him – accompanied with wrinkled smiles and Christmas presents and all those grandfatherly things grandfathers _did._

As his eyes wander around the audience, he knows that these people have suffered similar things. Be it a sister or a brother, friend or spouse, everyone has lost someone and something to the Bloody Throne of this country.

This isn't the original revolution – not the original force – but it will have impact, whether negative or positive, Tsuna isn't sure of the kind yet.

"They all _died_ for wanting independency for us," he continues once he regains his ability to talk and once he's over the miscellaneous faces filled with hatred, sorrow, and so many other forms of despair. "They all _died_ because of King's unwillingness to let us go."

He's not much of a talker, and all of this is something he has heard from TV during his teens, but he's tired and war-weary even when the war is only looming in the horizon, so he thinks he can be excused. He can. _All of them_ can.

"So, I'm asking all of you, please fight with us. Please, let's start a revolution. Not for the dead, but for the living, for the ones that are suffering when they shouldn't."

The applauses are deafening.

**.**

**.**

_this is a call to arms_


End file.
